


Aim for Their Heads

by SarcasticValarauko



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bad Parent Roose Bolton, Book!Ramsay, Book!Roose, Canon-Typical Behavior, Don't get me wrong, Gen, Leeching, Maybe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarcasticValarauko/pseuds/SarcasticValarauko
Summary: The Boltons have some precious time together, but unfortunately before a battle, and the most maddeningly during Roose Bolton's leeching.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton & Roose Bolton
Kudos: 1





	Aim for Their Heads

Leeches are fabulous creatures. 

Roose Bolton calmly took out a fat leech from a wooden bucket, thinking about Stannis’ army and the harsh winter. He observed the little thing struggling between his fingers, hungrily sucking in the air. Its body was transparent, like a piece of chubby ice, among its hundreds of companions, nearly invisible in the clear water. 

Their mouths were small, but their stomachs were wide. They leave so little wounds that he had to squint to see, but they suck away so much blood. 

He put the first leech to the left of his chest. The feeling of it biting through the skin was negligible, and it attached on him instantly. Blood flowed from his veins into the leech’s belly, spreading to its ice-like body. Clearing the foulness, he thought, takes away my dirty blood. It had been two weeks since the last time he leeched. His wounds from last time had healed themselves, leaving barely a trace. He had removed his upper garments, his shirt, vest and pink cloak folded neatly beside him. He sat on a black-wooded chair, the grey landscape of the Dreadfort gloomed outside the window like mist. The newly appointed Warden of the North picked up another leech, placing it a few inches away from the first. This one bit into the flesh fast enough. Then he reached for the third, the fourth, until these greedy little creatures dotted his chest with dark redness. They drank vigorously until their bodies were full of blood, swelling like polished drops of rubies. 

It was cold in his chambers, and the wood in the fireplace burned low. It seemed the servant in charge today had been dazing off a little too much. Coldness was like the air in the North: it cannot be excluded outside. Northerners probably need the cold as much as they need air. It was still snowing outside. Roose even considered the possibility of the snow falling without a halt, until the end of this long winter. He vaguely worried his leeches would be froze to death—if they do, he’ll have to purchase more of them from the South. A few months ago, he was using small, black leeches, but as the situation turned more severe, hence he needed more time to relax, the original kind were replaced by bigger ones. 

Roose put more and more leeches on his left arm, then closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair. He intended to spend some precious time taking a nap, for the blood-sucking things would fall off on their own when they’re full. But before he could have any rest, an echo of hasty footsteps breezed through the door. 

How dare anyone interrupt him during his treatment. 

The bedchamber of Roose Bolton was at the top of the Dreadfort, few came to visit beside his wife and several servants. Maids were told not to disturb Lord Bolton when he wanted solitude, and none of them would dare breaking the rules. Right now, the lovely Lady Walda Frey Bolton must be downstairs, having her afternoon tea with young noble women, lining Roose’s conference table with all kinds of dessert, giggling, chattering about some knight’s secret romance with a village girl. There were two guards at the other end of his hallway, but they didn’t stop this intruder. The footsteps came closer, without the clinging and tinkling of the guards’ chain mail and swords, or the ticking noises of Walda’s high heels, just the odd sounds of soft leather boots lightheartedly touching the ground. Possibilities rose before Roose’s eyes. Could it be an emergency letter from the Lannisters? Or a report of danger from the north’s boundaries? Someone’s unexpected death? Or worse, an assassination? 

Roose straightened his back, saving himself the effort to grab his shirt, and took his sword to his hand. The hallway outside his room was not short, and this period of time was enough for him to react and get the right answer. The visitor’s steps were light and dainty, almost humming a happy tune. A familiar smiling face appeared in the flayer lord’s mind. 

Roose resented his bastard son. Though King Tommen had given him the family name of Bolton, for Roose he would never be Ramsay Bolton all his life. 

Ramsay Snow knocked on the door twice, almost banging on it with his fist, making the hinges tremble like a knight’s armor when he rode fast on horseback. Frigid air washed through the room with a wind, making the grey curtains thrash.

“Come in,” Roose answered without blinking. 

The bastard pushed the heavy door open. His cold eyes were replicas of those of his father, pale like dirty ice. He was dressed in dark hunting suits, with a short coat, black tunic and a warm leather vest. A quiver still hung canted on his back, and a few drops of bloodstain could be seen on his boots, like the natural dots on deerskin. The bottom of his trousers was rudely turned up to avoid further stains. Taylors spent a long time to make the pair of sheepskin gloves on his hands, the stitches finer than a lady’s corset, but pitifully, cherishing must be a strange word to Ramsay. The gorgeous gloves were already worn and holed, rubbed on dirt and mosses. 

Delicate outfits were no plaything, especially not for a forest hunting game, Roose wanted to blame his future heir for his ignorance of basic knowledge. However, his bastard often chose to forget what he was told. Ramsay always treat precious thing with violence: expensive clothes marred, fair maidens pierced to death by arrows, the prince of the Iron Islands turned into a craven pet dog. 

When Ramsay saw the sword in Roose’s hand, his grin almost widened to his ears. “Father!” He greeted loudly, “Sorry to interrupt your… Leech Time.” He strode towards his father, shrugging as if really embarrassed. Roose did not ask him how he got past those guards—Ramsay’s ability of talking was way beyond his imagination. So, he did not speak as well, letting his weapon fall to the carpet. He stared at Ramsay with freezing gaze, demanding silently for a purpose of this sudden intrusion. Different from his bastard son, apathy was his usual expression. It was like a mask carved out of white wood, and since the turmoil in the North escalates, the mask seemed to be sealing itself on his face. When was the last time he truly smiled? Maybe it was the day Domeric getting knighted. He couldn’t remember, although he had a better memory than nearly anyone. His memory never let him down. Instead, Roose Bolton just ignored those that were considered “unimportant”. He remembered the day Domeric died, and the day Tywin Lannister gave to him the ruling power over the North, and the warmth of Robb Stark’s blood on his hands. He could make memories swirl in his head like a storm. 

“I have no idea what is bringing you to me, Bastard. Tell me as quick as possible. Get rid of your purposes,” he said, “spare me the useless details, and let me clear my own thoughts.” 

Ramsay cleared his throat, ready to speak. Roose sat back to his chair, leaving Ramsay standing like a pillar in the room. 

“I think it must be significant news,” said Ramsay, but obvious glee shone in his eyes. He halted a few seconds, leaving the room silent like a grave. 

“What is it, then? And why it was not my messengers to report but you?” 

“Actually, Father, it is because I accidentally shot that raven down.” 

Ramsay shrugged again, trying hard to look sorry. He then pulled a dead raven from his pocket, and a letter damp with snow and blood. He opened the piece of paper carefully, while Roose glared at it, shocked by the golden lion sigil seal. “Careful, you fool!” The lord warned him in anger. “Give me the letter!” 

Ramsay smiled and opened the seal on the small roll of paper. And he read. 

“Lord Tywin Lannister has been murdered by his youngest son, Tyrion. His death hurts us all. King Tommen Baratheon sends his regards. Cersei Lannister.” 

In a sudden, the air froze into a solid chunk of ice, blocking Roose’s breaths from his nose. The siege outside their fortress would be formed in days, and before the critical battle they now lost their strongest ally and only support from the South. After Tywin’s death, the rest of the Lannisters in charge—Jaime and Cersei, would abandon the north soon enough. 

Ramsay looked smiling still. He threw the raven’s body on the floor, along with his heavy coat and quiver—the arrows in it poured out like water. In dread and confusion Roose could do nothing but to think of the past. 

Roose remembered when Ramsay was taken to the Dreadfort. Maesters read to Roose’s sons, teaching them the history of The Targaryen Dynasty and the Night’s Watch. They even went hunting in the forest together. But when they practice dueling, they were separated. Domeric was taken to the foot of the fortress, training with the best swordsmen under Bolton’s banner; Ramsay had to go outside the walls of the Dreadfort with a drunk troop of soldiers. They threw snowballs at him, and only gave him daggers and axes and sticks and hammers, laughing while they watch him try to sway the rough tools in the freezing winds. Domeric had asked Roose if his little brother could practice fencing with him, and Roose forbade it. He told his trueborn son the tradition about bastard sons. 

After the dinner of that day, he sent Domeric to the maesters, and called Ramsay. He put a bow into Ramsay’s hands. Its wooden outline reminded the boy of a beautiful woman’s thin waist and curvy hips. “You are a bastard, Ramsay Snow. You will never be a gallant knight, and a sword cannot be your weapon,” he told the boy, “But remember, it’s to House Bolton your loyalty belongs, and you will be Bolton’s hunter, pulling your bowstring in murky woods. Remember-- aim for their heads.” 

And Ramsay did. 

Those Bolton eyes were pallid and hollow, but his gaze was as sharp as his blades, as pointy as his arrows. Since long ago, when he looked at his father, Roose knew the family’s future had been put between a monster’s jaws. 

It was afternoon. The sun had begun to set, yellow rays of light pierced through the room, gilding the tiny scroll with brightness. Their army outnumbered the enemies, but vague panic remained in Roose’s head. They would never lose this battle, for sure, but a war ends not only with one battle. A winter ends not only in one day. 

“Leave the letter, Ramsay, I will pen a reply to Queen Cersei soon.” He waved his hand, one fat leech falling from him. “Now trot back to your post and prepare for tomorrow’s siege. We don’t have the time to mourn for Lord Tywin.” The leech smashed on the edge of the bucket, and a little pond of blood splattered like an arrow-made entry wound. He restrained himself from cleaning the blood with his shirt beside him. 

Ramsay turned and put the letter on his father’s desk. “There won’t be a siege tomorrow, father,” he replied, wiping his gloved hands on his trousers. “We’ll face them outside the stronghold.” 

“What do you mean by ‘face them outside’?” Roose said in a horrible monotone which had the ability to tremble the knees of his opponents. “Stop your foolish nonsense at once, Bastard. Military operations are not——” 

“But I have a good suggestion, Father. Stannis’ men are less than ours, and their horses not even a half of our own. If we let him believe that such a siege might bring him victory—which is impossible—the hope in his heart will help him. We don’t need to fight him with our full force to defeat him. Instead, we let his own fear and despair devour himself. He’ll march tomorrow, and I assure you, I can make it like a breath to the candle.” 

“Your arrogance blinded you from your true wits, Ramsay. The battles are not your playground. You haven’t read a single book about how an army is defeated, and your head was full of cheap tricks.” 

“Aw, Father, that was quite hurting. You underestimate me. I know nothing about a war, but I know plenty about people. I know fear. You, too, Father, every Bolton knows it. It is our art. We are likely to defeat Stannis tomorrow, but after him there will be more rebels. Can we overpower them all? Or do we make their own fear stop them from marching forward?” 

“How do you destroy their hope, then?” 

Ramsay just smiled at him.

**Author's Note:**

> My First ASoIaF fic, hope y'all like it. I have to say that book!Roose is so hot (to me, at least) that it was such a mistake for GoT TV not adapting this character as in the book. Pink cloaks and those leeches, oh my. CREEPY. Love it. Also book!Ramsay is so different from GoT, like, the whole personality gives two completely different vibes. But some of the lines in the show was just fabulous.


End file.
